


Shall we go now?

by Saxifactumterritum



Series: Already got a family anyway [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e08 The Prodigal Father, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 14:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16518197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: After the episode, prompted by rhesascoffee, Athos searches for Porthos. Treville remembers meeting him.





	Shall we go now?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



> WARNINGS: canon stuff about Porthos's growing up, his fuckwit dad, Treville being Treville as in canon, um... there's a bit where Porthos in the army is mentioned and they're not good to him, racism hinted at though nothing explicit

Athos goes tavern to tavern, searching. He figures he better have a drink in each place before asking if Porthos has been through; people are more amenable to questioning when they've got money out of him. If Porthos has been through and is feeling belligerent it won't do any harm to show up front that he has money and hands it over easily. It's all for nought though, in the end, as no one's seen Porthos. Athos even tries the Wren, where Porthos only really goes on his birthday. Still nothing. Athos is by now thoroughly drunk and wanders idly, passing groups of drunks, the light and noise and fight of Paris washing over him. He considers his options. Maybe Porthos wasn't belligerent, maybe he's back at the garrison perfectly contented, sitting with Treville and talking. That would be a very Porthos like solution to things being a bit crap. Talking helps, according to Porthos - if you communicate then things don't get in quite such a tangle. Athos has his suspicions of this theory.

 

"Athos?"

 

Athos looks up, head spinning a little and eyes focusing badly, and sees Constance. She's stood in a doorway, saying goodbye to another woman leaving, bundled up against the cold. What a good outcome to his wanderings, he seems to have ended up near her house. He smiles at her and she smiles back looking far too amused. He steadies himself and holds his arms out for her inspection, turning slowly on the spot. She catches his elbow and tows him inside where it's warm. Athos goes willingly, maybe she can help him find his wayward friend. He needs to find Porthos, he'd had a look in his eyes earlier that Athos hadn't liked. Too much sadness and anger and, carefully buried, bewilderment. Athos applauds his choices tonight as he steps into the kitchen and there at her table is sat Porthos. 

 

"Porthos! I found you!" Athos says, pleased with himself. He hurries around the table and sits beside Porthos, taking his hand and giving it a pat. Porthos has beautiful strong hands. He decides to kiss Porthos's knuckles, too, in greeting. 

 

"You have found me," Porthos says. "Apparently you checked all the bottles, first."

 

"Just the taverns," Athos says. "I thought you'd go drinking so I searched there, I had just given up when Constance found me and I found you. Why are you here?"

 

"He's hiding," Constance says. 

 

Athos looks up, remembering she's there and this is her house, and sees her busy at the stove, adding wood or something useful like that. She brings over warm bread when she comes and a mug of water for Athos. She and Porthos have wine. Athos tries to switch his and Porthos's mugs when Porthos isn't looking but Porthos notices so Athos sticks with his water and eats some of the bread, watching Porthos. He looks a little better. Weary, sad, but calmer.

 

"Wait," Athos says. "Are you hiding from me?"

 

Constance stops talking, which is when Athos realises she was talking. He apologises for interrupting her and rests his head on Porthos's shoulder, presses his lips to Porthos's neck and collarbone, his warm skin, and then falls asleep. 

 

***

 

_ The first time Treville sees Porthos he does not, contrary to the stories he tells, recognise him. How could he? The first time he sees Porthos is in a dark street, so late it already counts as morning. Treville is stood in an alley, in the shadows, cloak around him and hat low so he’s out of sight, still so no one will think to look. No one does and he goes unnoticed as six men drag a seventh into the middle of the street, silent in their work, the dark hiding them no light and no tavern here and the houses too used to this to dare light a lamp. Treville hesitates. He’s just here to watch, to make sure nothing goes too far, but it’s difficult to watch his man get the utter shit beat out of him.  _

 

_ His moment’s hesitation, it turns out, is prudent; the door of a house further along opens and a figure slips out, standing in the shadow. Treville watches, curious, as the figure seems to - oh, he’s putting on a shirt and boots. Treville stifles a smile. There’s a click and his attention returns to the street. Basot is knelt, now, laughing softly as the men back up to allow one of their number space with the pistol. Treville tenses, but his companion in the shadows acts first, coming up behind the group of men and knocking two of their heads together, already roaring as he’s noticed, charging the man with the pistol and knocking it away. Basot is up and moving, joining the fight, and he and the man, back to back, take out all six of them. After, as Treville watches, the man shakes Basot’s hand, gestures back to the house he came out of. Whatever he says makes Basot laugh again, lighter and easier this time. The man goes, ducking into the shadows again to pick something up. One of his boots, Treville realises. He waits and Basot comes over.  _

 

_ “Who was that?” Treville asks.  _

 

_ “Didn’t introduce himself, said he’d better save the lady’s honour,” Basot says.  _

 

_ “Will it be a problem? Did he recognise you?” Treville asks.  _

 

_ “Not a problem,” Basot says, leaving the other unanswered. Treville nods.  _

 

_ “What have you got for me? It better be something, after that show.” _

 

_ “Oh yes,” Basot says, grinning widely.  _

 

_ ***  _

  
  


Porthos's laughter wakes Athos, a loud ‘he did what?!’. He keeps his eyes shut, moving so he can wrap an arm more around Porthos and hold on but stays quiet and still otherwise, dozy and warm and content. He's not drunk any more but he's got enough wine in him still to make the world soft and fuzzy and cushioned. Besides, he's asleep on Porthos, which is always the best to wake up to, even if his leather is pressing uncomfortably into Athos’s cheek. At least it's not the fleur de lys of his uniform this time, to leave an imprint. Porthos isn't wearing his uniform. 

 

"You heard," Constance says. "I'm not saying it again."

 

"We've been talking about this for the last hour and you've waited until now to mention that he proposed?" Porthos says, still chuckling to himself. 

 

"Porthos, shut up," Constance mutters. "Stop laughing."

 

"I would but it's funny, so no," Porthos says. "He's nice, though, right?"

 

"Yes, quite lovely. You can marry him if that's all you require," Constance says. 

 

"I might, if he asked. Or if Athos ever wakes up," Porthos says. "Hard to get married with a musketeer lieutenant drooling on one's shoulder."

 

"I'm not drooling," Athos grumbles, words coming out a bit slurry with sleep. 

 

Porthos snorts but doesn't try and argue his side. Athos sits up and stretches, realises he's still holding Porthos's hand and lets it go. He presses a kiss to Porthos's beardy cheek, fond of him and still a bit fuzzy. Porthos looks still better now, eyes bright with amusement, looking like he fits right in this warm kitchen, between Athos and Constance. Right at home. Here, Athos decides, they can give him some family. 

 

"You'd better go, Porthos," Constance says. Athos glares but Porthos doesn't seem put off and Constance looks lovely and happy so it's doesn't last. "I think d'Artagnan said he was coming over when he got off duty, which is about now?"

 

"Ten minutes ago," Porthos says, grimacing. "Ok. Come on, Athos, you drunkard."

 

"I'm not drunk," Athos says, getting up and waiting for Porthos to as well so he can drape himself over Porthos's shoulders and be half-carried home.   

 

"Then you can walk on your own," Porthos says, ducking away and going to embrace Constance instead. "I'll see you later, then?"

 

"You bring wine next time," Constance says. "I've provided the last two times."

 

Athos follows Porthos out into the street. It's cold, sharp with frost and chill, no water in the air, and dark. Athos finds his gloves in his belt and pulls them on, stretching again before setting off. Porthos doesn't fall into step with him and he has to go back and take Porthos's hand. He hasn't got gloves and his fingers already look cold. Porthos opens his mouth to explain but Athos already knows so he kisses Porthos's cheek again, hand not holding Porthos's coming up to touch afterwards, Porthos's beard course against his fingers, his skin soft. Porthos sighs and Athos wants to kiss him. Two musketeers kissing in the street in the middle of the night is not going to go unnoticed, though, so instead Athos tucks Porthos's arm into his and heads them firmly in the direction of the garrison, keeping Porthos knit close arm in arm. 

 

***

 

_ The second time Treville meets Porthos, he still doesn’t recognise him. He’s sat in the courtyard watching Basot spar with their new recruit, a big man called Gaillard. Treville remembers his father. He’s good, not as quick as Basot. Basot’s improved in leaps and bounds recently, Treville doesn’t know what he’s been doing since he got back but it’s working. Now he takes Gaillard gently to the ground for the fourth time.  _

 

_ “Ah!” Someone shouts from the entry-way, striding in, clapping his hands. “That’s it, Jean! Use a little more force and follow it through and you can crack a skull with that trick.” _

 

_ “I’d rather he not,” Treville says, raising an eyebrow at the interruption.  _

 

_ “Sorry, captain,” Basot says, panting. “This is Porthos, he’s a soldier, he’s been teaching me.” _

 

_ “In the taverns,” Porthos adds, coming over to stand with Basot, eyes sparking mischief. Basot elbows him in the stomach and Porthos turns, hauling Gaillard up. “You’re slow. You should get him running, captain, make him move his feet.” _

 

_ “I will train my own men, thank you very much,” Treville says. Something about Porthos has him a little off balance, he’s not sure what it is. “I’d rather they not be trained for tavern brawls.” _

 

_ “My bad,” Porthos says, hands up. “These are the elite musketeers, king’s own men. I should bow.” _

 

_ “Du Vallon,” Basot says, irritable and sharp. Porthos just grins widely around at his audience of three. Basot tries to elbow him again but he skips out of reach and his gaze rests on Basot a moment, his smile softening just a little. What is it, Treville wonders, that has him so caught by this man? “Captain, I apologise, I made plans with du Vallon and my sparing with Gaillard has run me over time.” _

 

_ “It has indeed,” Treville says. “You may go.” _

 

_ They start off, but Porthos turns back and invites Gaillard along, and another musketeer as he walks in; Treville barely catches a glimpse but he’s pretty sure it’s Aramis, another new recruit. Offered up by Richelieu, Treville’s not sure whether to trust him or not. He watches the four of them go, and hopes they’re not going to get into too much trouble.  _

 

***

 

It's late when they get back but there's just been a duty change over so there are musketeers around, George Falaize and Jean Basot are sparring - hand to hand to avoid sword clashes waking people up. Charles Gaillard is keeping score, leaning on the table, a bottle of wine in one hand a pistol in the other. He spots them and raises his bottle in greeting. Porthos heads over, Athos is still holding his arm so he goes too, cobbles loud under their boots.

 

"What's the bet?" Porthos asks, leaning next to Gaillard and taking the bottle, watching the fight with him, body loose and easy, languid, but ready to leap up and join in should the moment arise, eyes amused but watchful. 

 

"Nothing, they're settling a feud," Gaillard says. 

 

Athos doesn't listen to what the argument is. Basot and Falaize are badly matched, Basot is small but Falaize is smaller, wiry and slippery, quick, but not particularly skilled at this. Basot is quicker and better. He gets Falaize on the ground three times but keeps the fight going, for some reason. Probably to entertain Gaillard who whispers encouragement and laughs, happy to have something to watch. Athos doesn't know why Porthos is watching too, but he catches on when Treville comes out on the balcony at the top of the stairs, shirt open and loose, looking sleep-rumpled. Porthos's chin lifts and his eyes spark and Athos gets a tight hold on his biceps, catching him as he tries to fling himself into the fight. 

 

"Porthos," Athos says. "Come on."

 

"I was just gonna-"

 

"Yes, I can see," Athos says, pulling Porthos back further into the dark of the building as Treville makes his way down the stairs, already hissing invective as the men fighting. 

 

"Let go," Porthos says. 

 

"Not likely," Athos says, pulling Porthos away, along the wall to the kitchens door and inside, out of the reach of Treville's ire. 

 

He's pretty sure Porthos was going to try and start an argument with Treville. He's kept hold of Gaillard's wine and drinks it now, jerking his arm out of Athos's grip, wandering over to the tamped-down fire. The kitchen is dark, things set out for tomorrow morning's preparations, warm from the fire. 

 

"Oi. Stand where you are or I'll shoot you," comes a growl from a dark corner. 

 

"Put Cleopatra down before you blow a hole in the roof," Porthos mutters, referring to the big old gun Serge keeps in here. Athos hopes it's not pointing at him. "It's just me and Athos."

 

"What are you doing in here? I'm sleeping," Serge says, coming into the light, no gun in sight, taking Porthos in before turning to Athos. Athos shrugs, not wanting to explain. He nods at Porthos and Serge sighs but shrugs back and waves a hand in invitation. "Just don't eat anything."

 

Athos nods agreement and waits for Porthos to be done sulking over there and come back over here. The kitchen is intimate, well heated, but Porthos feels very far away, detached from Athos, and Athos feels cold. It's not too long, Porthos comes back and rests his forehead against Athos, breathing deeply. 

 

"Go to bed," Serge mutters, setting an example and melting back into the darkness and, presumably, going back to his sleep. 

 

***

 

_ The third time Treville meets Porthos he already knows, somewhere. It’s not hard, when he finds Porthos sat against a wall in an alley behind a tavern, bleeding, eyes dark with anger and grief, to recognise his old friend. And when Porthos recognises him, and then sees Basot and Aramis at his shoulder, and manages a smile, there’s no missing Marie-Cessette there. Treville only met her twice but he’s not forgetting her smile in a hurry. He kneels and pulls Porthos’s hand away from his side. _

 

_ “What have you done to yourself, mon ami?” Aramis asks softly, from behind Treville.  _

 

_ He’s learning to be a good field medic, but right now Treville is still the most skilled amongst them. It’s he who peels back Porthos’s shirt, no jacket even in the chill, and finds the ball. Just a hole, but Treville knows enough to know it’s probably still in there. He pulls Porthos away from the wall and feels, and sure enough there’s no exit.  _

 

_ “How long have you been sat here? How long since the shot?” Treville asks.  _

 

_ “Long enough,” Porthos says. “I can walk. Are you here to help me or take me to prison?” _

 

_ “What would I arrest you for?” Treville asks, assessing for himself how much blood Porthos seems to have lost. Long enough is a good assessment, he thinks grimly. The bleeding is slow now, though. If he can tie it tight enough, they can get Porthos back to the garrison. Or into the inn. “Where are we?” _

 

_ “Not here,” Porthos says, hand reaching out to hold Treville’s jacket. “Not in there.” _

 

_ Treville sighs but holds out a hand for bandages, which are given to him, and sets about getting Porthos good enough for a trip.  _

 

_ “Arrest me for duelling,” Porthos says, breathless from Treville putting pressure on his wound. “Bloody great arsehole, though, so I should be let off. No need to try and fight a cadet so drunk he can’t walk straight, barely on his feet he were. Looked like he was about to go into the river. Where is he, anyway?” _

 

_ “The man you fought?” Treville ask, tightening his bandages so Porthos can’t answer for a moment, can only curse at Treville. Colourfully.  _

 

_ “No, he’s dead,” Basot says, sounding odd. He must have gone to check.  _

 

_ “Great,” Treville says.  _

 

_ “It was a fair fight,” Porthos says. “Anyway, he shot first. At me back! Bloody hell, captain, are you done torturing me yet?” _

 

_ “Yes,” Treville says, brightly. “Now let’s get you on your feet. Did you find this drunk cadet, Basot?” _

 

_ “No,” Basot says, as Aramis ducks under one of Porthos’s arms, Treville under the other. “Was he one of ours?” _

 

_ “Dunno,” Porthos mumbles. “Not even sure he was a cadet, on second thoughts. Had a feather in his hat, I liked that. Looked like a cheerful feather.” _

 

_ They haul him back to the garrison and Treville sits, Porthos’s bare torso under his hands, unable to keep from thinking of de Foix and Marie and remembering holding this man in his arms, barely a week old. He can’t stand it, and when he’s dragged the ball out and put the last stitch in, he leaves Aramis to clean and bandage and soothe. Porthos is entirely drunk by then and singing off-key. Treville gets Basot to find out who Porthos’s captain is.  _

 

_ “He quit,” Basot says. “Or they might have let him go, I didn’t get the details. He told us tonight, he was drunk and angry. I’m not sure what happened. He slipped away when Aramis went to get wine and I brought Gaillard back here, being too drunk. That’s why we went looking for him, and when we just found his pistol, and the blood…” _

 

_ “Fine,” Treville says, sighing. “Find out what happened?” _

 

_ “Why? Sorry, captain, but why do you care? I like Porthos, he doesn’t deserve to be used in some game of cat and mouse you’re playing with the Cardinal,” Basot says, lifting his chin without a trace of shame or fear, meeting Treville’s eyes.  _

 

_ “He’s a good fighter,” Treville says. “A warrior.” _

 

_ “Fine. I’ll find out,” Basot says, leaving with a neat twist.  _

 

_ Treville waits in his office. He sees Athos return. Son of the comte de la Fere, who Treville remembers from court, Athos was accepted here because of his family name, though he asked Treville to keep that quiet, and because he’s good with a sword, but he’s turning out to be a bit of a liability. He’s so drunk, tonight, that he falls over in the courtyard and just lies. Treville sighs and goes out to scrape him up but, in what seems to be becoming a pattern, Porthos gets there first. Coming out in a shirt that’s too small and a blanket around his shoulders, Aramis hovering, he spots Athos in the middle of the yard, face up to the sky, fast asleep and snoring.  _

 

_ “You!” Porthos says. “That’s him, that’s the cadet. He is one of yours?” _

 

_ “That’s Athos,” Aramis says, laughing. “He’s not a cadet. You just saved a drunk.” _

 

_ “Well I’m glad,” Porthos says. “He’s a beautiful drunk, looks like an angel there. Are you letting him sleep like that?” _

 

_ “No, looks messy, the captain won’t approve. I’d better haul him to bed before he gets in trouble. Though why I should care I don’t know. Give me a hand?” _

 

_ “I got shot,” Porthos protests, but he does help get Athos up.  _

 

_ Athos mumbles something, sees Porthos, mumbles something else, and then lurches away from them. Hopefully to bed, but so long as he’s out of sigh that’s all Treville cares about tonight. Basot returns, face dark with anger, and tells Treville about mistreatment of new recruits and a habit of Porthos’s commanding officer of sending Porthos in first as cannon-fodder. Treville decides to go to the king, tomorrow, and ask for a new man.  _

 

***

 

They go to Athos's rooms because, Porthos explains, he left via the window earlier to avoid the courtyard, and he didn't shut the window. It'll be cold. Athos leaves Porthos to sit on the side of the bed and drink the rest of Gaillard's bottle. He sets the fire and lights it, he hasn't been recently it's not so cold but it'll be nice for tonight. He gets a couple of extra blankets from a crate under his bed, too, and gets out of his boots and jacket, discarding his weapons. Porthos hasn't got any weapons that Athos can see but when he stands and removes jacket and trousers, a series of knives and a small pistol appear and are deposited on Athos's table. 

 

"Are you going to just leave that burning?" Porthos asks, indicating the fire. 

 

"That was my intention," Athos says. 

 

Porthos nods and goes to stand in front of it in his underthings, shoulders up, back tight. Athos makes up his bed (left in a muddle this morning) and gets them a new bottle of wine, taking a few sips before going to give it to Porthos. 

 

"I'm already tipsy," Porthos says, softly. "Constance made sure to feed me as we drank but that only goes so far."

 

"You went to her?" Athos asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

"We sit together, sometimes," Porthos says. "She wasn't wrong, either. I was hiding from Treville. And from you."

 

"I found you anyway," Athos says, wrapping an arm around Porthos's shoulder and leaning into him, grinning against his shirt before looking up at him. Porthos takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes, taking the wine and gulping it down. 

 

"Do you want me to go?" Athos asks, taking the bottle back before Porthos downs the whole thing. 

 

"Go? These are your rooms," Porthos says. "No. I want you to stay. I don't want to talk about my... father. Or Treville."

 

"Then we don't talk," Athos says. "Do you want to get drunk?"

 

"Not really."

 

Athos is out of ideas. Mostly his problem solving is limited to 'get drunk'. He rests against Porthos's side, gazing into the fire until Porthos shakes him off and goes to lie down. Athos leaves the wine on the table and joins him, stretching out beside him, pulling blankets over them until they're warm. Porthos is right there, big and comforting, and the room's very warm, and he's still a bit soft around the edges from so much wine, so Athos soon starts to doze. On guard, keeping an eye on Porthos, he's still alert but resting. The fire burns brightly and then less so, burning lower and lower until the room is dimmer. Athos gets up to bank the last of it, keep it warm for tomorrow. The room is almost dark, now. He can make out Porthos beside him, the rise and fall of his breathing, the reflection of what light there is off his open eyes. 

 

"I haven't lost anything. I have exactly what I always did," Porthos whispers. 

 

"Hope," Athos says, who has been considering this very conundrum. Not that he thinks Porthos has lost nothing, but he knows Porthos will look at it as an equation - he had no father and still has no father. 

 

"I knew he can't have been good. Not to have left us there," Porthos says. 

 

"You would never have looked him up if you were sure of that," Athos says. 

 

"Treville knew him," Porthos says, and there's a catch in his voice over that. If Treville knew him, maybe he was not a bad man after all. Maybe he would be like Treville. That was the hope, surely. 

 

"I think Treville was a different man, before... well, before he had so much to regret," Athos says, thinking of Savoy and Porthos and Richelieu and intrigues and so many other things. "He is very lucky to have loyal men, good men. People who love him and follow him. He is so lucky."

 

"Gaillard ain't so great as all that," Porthos says, startling a laugh out of Athos. He can make out a smile on Porthos's face, or maybe he just knows it's there. 

 

"I'm not going to lie to you," Athos says. "I don't think he did the right thing. I'm angry with him, I'm so very angry that he didn't tell us, didn't tell you, let you go there and didn't tell us where you were or if you were in danger until we had to charge to the rescue. He's seen... he's seen what I see, that it hurt you not to know. That it hurt. He did nothing."

 

Porthos shifts, breath too tight. Athos breathes deeply and lets the anger go. Porthos makes a miserable sound. 

 

"He told me now," Porthos whispers. 

 

"I wanted to protect you," Athos whispers back, turning onto his side so he can wrap an arm around Porthos, can kiss his shoulder. Porthos turns his head to face him. "I would have kept you safe from all of that if I could have."

 

"Came and got me," Porthos mutters. 

 

"I did. I always will. Next time bring me along, as well as Aramis. I'll shoot any fucker who spits in your face."

 

Porthos laughs, a soft gust of air against Athos's cheek, moving closer into Athos's arms. They lie there, forehead to forehead, Athos wrapped around Porthos. 

 

"Aramis told you that?" Porthos asks, at last. 

 

"Yeah," Athos says. "Eventually, once he'd been the knight in shining armour and we got those women out of Eleanor's house."

 

"He gave me a picture of a random woman," Porthos says, voice breaking again.

 

"I know," Athos whispers, making his voice soft again. 

 

"I wish she'd got away from him," Porthos whispers. "I wish she'd run, with me or without me."

 

"She never would have left you," Athos says. 

 

Porthos agrees. And finally he's crying. Athos draws him in and holds him through it, cradling his head. He just holds on until the tears are done, and then he sings. He only really knows half-remembered aer de cour from church or songs from the army; he sings the latter, slowing them until they're almost lullabies. They're mostly a bit raunchy and when Porthos calms enough to hear the words he laughs, a fond, exhausted sound that assures Athos that everything is going to be okay. If nothing else, they have this, have each other. Athos has Porthos now, has him held close and safe, and he can sing until he's hoarse. Or at least until Porthos is asleep, a good weight in his arms, snoring lightly, the world closed out of his dreams and kept at bay but Athos on guard. 

 

***


End file.
